The Shattered Helmet (7 page)

Black spray shot toward Joe's face!

T
HE
can of spray paint hissed at Joe as he swung around to avoid it. He felt the wetness on the back of his head.

Saffel moved in to get a closer shot. At the same time Frank shouted a warning. Joe delivered an elbow thrust, which caught Leon in the midsection. With a grunt he dropped the can to the ground.

Joe whirled about, and with an open hand dealt Saffel a resounding blow on the side of the face.

Leon staggered backward, all the fight gone out of him. By this time Frank and Chet had raced over, with Evan on their heels. They surrounded the stunned adversary. Joe wiped the black paint from his blond hair with a pocket handkerchief.

“What's the big idea?” he fumed. “Saffel, you must be crazy! If that paint had gotten into my eyes, it could have blinded me!”

“Can't you guys take a little joke?” Leon asked shakily.

“I'd say it's a pretty rotten joke,” Frank said. He picked up the can and examined it. “This is what you sprayed on our cameras.”

“I don't know anything about any cameras.”

“Don't be stupid,” Chet said. He showed him the white glove. “This matches the one we found under our window. How can you deny the evidence?”

Leon's mouth twitched. He looked from one boy to the other. “All right, I did it,” he said finally. “But don't beat me up!”

“Nobody wants to beat you,” Frank said. “We prefer not to get physical, but you don't give us much choice.”

“Why did you do it?” Joe demanded.

“I was trying to get even,” Leon admitted.

“Then let's stop this feud right here and now,” Frank said. “It's getting ridiculous.”

“But you'd better pay for the repair of the cameras,” Chet said.

“All right.”

Joe shot a question, hoping to catch Leon off guard. “Do you know Twister Gerrold?”

“Who?” Leon's face showed no emotion.

“Forget it.”

“Can I go now?”

“Not yet,” Frank said. “Who was the joker in the red car?”

“I don't know.”

“You were talking to him.”

“Yes, but I didn't ask his name. He was Greek,” Leon added. He said that the man had approached him on campus and suggested that they meet in some quiet place.

“We'd only been here a minute when you came along.”

“Well, what did he want from you?”

“Said he wanted a job done.”

“What kind of job?” asked Evan.

Leon shrugged his shoulders. “He was about to tell me when you interrupted.”

Frank said, “I'll advise you not to get into any more trouble.”

“Okay. Let me go now.” Leon jumped into his car and drove off.

The boys discussed the latest events. Why would the Greek stranger want to talk to Leon? What kind of job did he have in mind? Did it have anything to do with the Hardys?

“I've got a strong hunch it has,” remarked Frank.

“And that means trouble for us,” added Joe.

The boys drove back to the campus and had lunch. Then they went to their dorm, locked the door, and mapped out their sleuthing strategy.

Both Frank and Joe were eager to track down Buster Buckles in their quest for
The Persian Glory.

“Our film-making course here is important,” Frank said, “but we have a job to do. And I don't think it can wait any longer.”

“That's right,” Joe agreed. “I have a strange feeling about this case. That man in the red car gives me the creeps. He's up to no good.”

“If Leon was the one who threw the rock at Chet's camera, and Red Car saw him,” Frank conjectured, “Red Car might have figured that Leon has something against us. So he gets in touch with our joking buddy and asks him to do a job—”

His voice trailed off. The others nodded silent agreement to Frank's theory. But what was the job Saffel was to do?

“If you two plan to split,” Chet finally said, “where does that leave Evan and me?”

“Stay and continue,” Frank advised.

“Not me,” Evan spoke up. “Remember, I got you into this mystery and I want to help you solve it.”

“That takes care of that, then,” Chet said. “I'm coming, too. We can always take the course some other time.”

Frank hesitated. “I'd rather you stay here, Chet.”

“Why?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on Saffel and Red Car. They're up to no good.”

“Besides,” Evan put in slyly, “Thelma's here.”

“That's right,” Joe said. “She'd be heartbroken if you left.”

Chet broke into a smile. “Maybe you guys are right. I'll stay.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “Would you take our cameras to the shop in town and have them fixed? We'll leave as soon as we can.”

He and Joe hastened off to see Jeff Riker and reported their plan to him.

“Too bad you won't be able to finish the course,” Jeff said, “But I know how you feel about your case. Maybe you can take the course later.”

“I hope so,” Frank said. “We sure enjoyed it”

Since they planned to purchase knapsacks and sleeping bags in New Mexico, the boys took a minimum of clothing in a duffel bag and mailed the rest home. They called their father, who promised to make ticket arrangements for them right away and to wire some money to Santa Fe.

At eleven o'clock the next morning the Hardys and Evan boarded a plane for Chicago, where they would transfer to the Santa Fe flight.

At the window seat, Evan's eyes were fixed on the landscape. The vast green forests and lakes, interspersed with towns and cities, had him spellbound.

“I didn't know there was so much undeveloped land here in the United States,” he said.

“You haven't seen anything yet,” Joe said. “Wait till we get out west!”

The flight from Chicago was at extremely high altitude, and only when the plane was on its descent did the Greek boy marvel once again at the countryside.

The forested mountains of the Sangre de Cristo gave way to rolling hills dotted with juniper bushes and rabbit brush. Evan said the semiarid land was much like the hills around Athens.

After they had landed at Santa Fe, the travelers checked at the airline counter. Their money had already arrived.

They took a taxi to the La Fonda Hotel, where they checked in, then went directly to the office of the
New Mexican
, the town's leading newspaper.

Frank spoke to the city editor, Felix Montoya, asking what he knew about the presence of Buster Buckles in the nearby mountains.

“Oh, he's quite a character,” Montoya said. “Last time I heard about Buster, he was camping at Chimayo.”

He walked over to a wall map and pointed out the location of the Spanish settlement north of the city, known for its rug-weaving.

The boys thanked the editor for the information and left. Next they bought knapsacks and sleeping bags at a sporting goods store called The Trading Post, and visited a motorcycle rental agency. The Hardys had had experience with trail bikes in an adventure called
Danger on Vampire
Trail.
They knew what they were looking for and soon selected three sturdy Hondas. Evan remarked that this machine was also well known in Greece. The rental agreement was signed, along with adequate insurance coverage.

In the evening they strolled around the central plaza, which was swarming with Pueblo Indians. The men wore jeans and cowboy hats, the women voluminous skirts and colorful shawls. The Greek boy was surprised to hear so much Spanish spoken on the streets.

The following morning they started out, their gear strapped to the back of the cycles.

Evan's face glowed with irrepressible delight. The new country, the keen crisp air, and the promise of high adventure made his blood tingle with excitement.

The turnoff to Chimayo opened onto a rough road that snaked through dun-colored hills. Finally they came to a small settlement of low adobe houses and a few shops.

The riders parked their cycles in front of a store bearing a sign
Indian Rugs and Blankets.
They entered and queried the proprietor. Had he seen Buster Buckles? Did he know where the old actor was encamped?

The man, leathery-faced and friendly, said that Buckles had been camping near the town. “But he left two days ago,” he added.

“Do you know where he went?” Frank asked.

The man waved his hand. “Toward Taos. I hear Buster wants to stay there a week or so.”

“Well, we've nearly got him,” Joe said as they left the store and had a quick sandwich. Then they mounted their bikes again and started toward the main highway.

“Hey, look what's coming!” Frank shouted.

From around a bend halfway down the hill appeared seven motorcycles. The Hardys and Evan pulled far to the right side, allowing plenty of room for the oncomers to pass single file.

But instead they approached en masse, blocking the way completely. The lettering on their jackets could be seen plainly:
Monsters.

The pack stopped, as did the Hardys and Evan. The leader pushed up his goggles, revealing a tough-looking face with squinty eyes. On his helmet was the name Jock. Standing astride his bike, he said, “Where you guys going?”

“To Taos,” Frank replied.

The leader turned to his companions and laughed. “They
think
they're going to Taos!”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked. “Why don't you just move aside and let us pass!”

“Anybody who rides a cycle should be ready for a challenge,” Jock said with a grin.

“Like what?”

“How about a hill-climbing race, dudes?”

“We're not out for any hill-climbing,” Joe replied.

“That's what you say! I say you're just in the mood for a race.”

The three boys exchanged glances. The Monster pack laughed in derision.

“All right,” Frank said. “We'll race you up a hill. Then we'll be on our way again.”

Jock ordered his pals to turn around. They retreated along the road a hundred yards, then turned sharply right onto a small trail which led to the top of a lava flow.

The black hill was strewn with boulders, and from the many tire tracks on the trail, the Hardys deduced that this must be the Monsters' practice place.

The bikes assembled on a level turnout just below the steep incline. Jock pulled the goggles over his eyes.

“All right, you foreigners,” he said sarcastically. “I'll give the signal. The guy who reaches the top first is champ.”

“Are there any rules?” Evan asked.

“Oh, now, isn't he polite,” one of the Monsters said with a sneer.

Another shouted, “No rules. Every man for himself!”

Frank turned to Joe and said, “Fifty-four, twenty-one, thirty.”

His brother recognized their football signal. The play was on an off-tackle run, in which Frank led his brother through the line.

Joe acknowledged with a slight nod. Frank would go first and he would follow slightly behind.

Now the racket became a din as the riders gunned their machines and waited for Jock's signal. A mad scramble started. Dirt and pebbles were spewed into the air from spinning tires. The pack jumped into motion.

Soon it became evident what no rules meant. One of the Monsters cut off Evan. His cycle slewed to one side. The Greek gained control, only to be cut off by another gang member.

This time his front wheels hit a boulder. Evan flew from the seat and landed in a patch of rabbit brush as his cycle skidded on its side.

Frank and Joe gamely fought their way uphill, dodging Monsters while trying to retain equilibrium. Jock and a buddy were in the lead, with Frank following and Joe close behind.

The Hardys had ridden cycles in Bayport and had had some hair-raising experiences, but none like this!

The Monster ahead of Frank swerved to cut him off. Frank braked momentarily, then, with a burst of speed, nudged the rear wheel of the rider. With a look of surprise the Monster veered out of control on a sandy spot.

Watching from below, Evan saw the pack thinning out. Two of Jock's men had bumped each other, and were out of the running. The others
kept on like a pack of hounds after Frank and Joe.

Now the top of the hill was in sight. Jock turned his head to see the Hardys in pursuit. He let Frank come even with him on the left, and both riders, their heads bent low, tried to gain the advantage.

Suddenly Jock's foot kicked out. The blow caught Frank on the thigh and he swerved momentarily. Jock followed the advantage by pulling ahead. His rear wheel brushed against the front of Frank's machine, which skidded over to one side, and out of the race.

Jock glanced back to hurl an epithet, unaware that Joe had gained on his right.

Now the Monster leader had another Hardy challenging him! He tried the same trick, kicking out his foot viciously. But Joe, who had seen what had happened to Frank, was ready. He gave Jock a karate blow against the shin.

More surprised than pained, the Monster let up for a split second. Joe burst into the lead and reached the small circular plateau on the summit. There he stopped his machine and waited.

Jock arrived first and threw off his helmet angrily. “What was the idea of whopping me like that! You threw me off balance!”

“So what?” Joe retorted. “No rules, remember?”

The motorcycle leader fumed. Soon the others had gathered around. Frank said, “Nice going,
Joe.” He turned to Jock. “Now we'll be on our way.”

Jock clenched his fists and stepped forward menacingly.

Evan said, “We made a deal, didn't we? We had the race and Joe won. What are you getting uptight about?”

Jock turned to his pals, searching their faces for an answer. One of them, a short boy who looked like an Indian, said, “I guess a deal's a deal. Let them go, Jock.”